WEBB: The deep thoughts of Marlon Bundo

Vice President Mike Pence and his wife Karen Pence let children pet their family rabbit "Marlon Bundo" during and event with military families celebrating National Military Appreciation Month and National Military Spouse Appreciation Day in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building May 9, 2017 in Washington, DC. The vice president hosted about 160 spouses and children of the active duty U.S. military members.(Photo: Chip Somodevilla, Getty Images)

But I guess the star of “East of Eden” doesn’t lend himself to easily accessible bunny puns. They could have gone with Hare-rol Flynn, but I’ve read biographies on that guy, and let’s just say it’s not a flattering comparison.

I’ve been getting a lot of attention. I understand it. The vice president doesn’t usually own a bunny. Leaders of state often have some lame cat or one of those uppity water-dogs the Obamas owned.

Teddy Roosevelt had a pet moose. He dressed it in a suit and demanded that it attend all cabinet meetings. You know, looking back, it’s a miracle this country survived into the ’20s.

They drag me to photo-ops at children’s events and the kids squeal and pet me too hard with their Oreo-stained fingers. And it’s nice. But am I just a prop? Am I not good enough to be brought to that tiny room where they watched bin Laden get iced? Maybe Marlon has a thing or two to say about national security. Ever thought about that?

A lot of people don’t know this, but it was actually Roosevelt’s moose who had the idea to build the Panama Canal.

But no. They lock me in the vice president’s quarters and leave me to spend most of my days napping in the cage or finding creative spots to poop. Any fool can defecate in a shoe. It takes talent to drop one in the vice president’s suit pocket.

Not that I have a problem with Man. He’s OK. He’s just a little strange. He does eat more grapes than I would consider healthy.

He calls me “Mother,” too.

Woman is nice. So is Girl. And every so often, Joe Biden stops by.

Apparently he still has a key, and when no one else but me is home, he sneaks through the back door carrying a cold six of Coors.

“What’s up Godfather?” he always says.

He sneaks me out of the vice president’s quarters and into the night. We climb into his convertible and shoot down Massachusetts Avenue with the top down – the wind bristling through my Oreo-stained fur.

He slips a fiver to the Secret Service and within a few minutes we find ourselves sitting on the roof of the White House, staring at the Washington Monument as it rises into the black sky.

I even get my own lawn chair. Joey pours a finger of Coors into a bowl and we unwind and talk about life. Well, he does most of the talking.

“I’d kill to be you, Godfather,” he told me one night. “You can’t speak. And talking – that’s what gets us in trouble.

“People don’t know what you’re thinking. They don’t know anything about your past. But when they see you, they all squeal. They run up and embrace you. Bask in your presence. In that moment, politics, ideology, orientation – it’s all out the window. It’s nothing but a bright spark of joy. The feeling that in this petty, death-ridden, bickering-laden nightmare of a planet, we can still look at the thing next to us and feel something as simple as love.”